slaying the Red Cummin, rode to Scone to be crowned by the bishop of Saint Andrews. David II, the first King of Scots to be anointed with sacred oil and the last monarch to be crowned in Scotland, was crowned here and King Charles II accepted his kingdom and scepter on these very grounds.
Reining in her shaggy Highland mare, Katrine paused before the lichen-covered walls, gray in winter, brilliant red in autumn, and now green in celebration of spring. Breathing deeply several times, she waited for the coach to catch up with her. Even though Scone boasted many of the most modern amenities of the eighteenth century, the postern gate was not one of them. It would be the height of selfishness to ask the servants to raise the gates now and then once again when her mother’s travel coach arrived. Although it was less than three full days from her home at Blair-Atholl, Lady Janet Murray refused to make the journey on horseback. Katrine chafed impatiently at the delay. Her mother was not a stern parent, but there were times when she would not be budged. Resigning herself to at least an hour’s wait, Katrine was pleasantly surprised when she heard the sound of horses in the distance.
Reining in her mount, she waited for the familiar outline of the Murray coach with its driver and four horses to rise above the knoll. The two riders galloping toward her bore little resemblance to her mother’s entourage. Within moments they reached her side.
James Murray, his musket across his saddle, triumphantly held up two pheasants. “You’ve arrived in good time, my dear. We shall eat well tonight. Where is your mother?”
“Still on her way, Uncle James.” Katrine was very aware of the golden-haired gentleman by his side. “I didn’t want to disturb the gatekeeper.”
“Nonsense.” James Murray flourished his birds. “I pay him, do I not? Raising the gates now and then relieves the boredom. Follow me,” he cried, digging his knees into the belly of his mount
Richard Wolfe maneuvered his horse next to Katrine’s. “How do you do, Lady Murray?”
“Call me Katrine,” she said quickly. “My mother is the one who answers to Lady Murray.”
His sudden smile warmed her like a shaft of summer sunlight. “Very well, Katrine.”
The sound of her name on his lips disconcerted her. The way he lingered over the syllables made it sound almost indecently personal. She was very conscious of her disheveled appearance and unconventional riding apparel. Laughing off her mother’s suggestion that it was more suitable for a lady to ride sidesaddle, Katrine had pulled on her divided skirt and ridden astride. She was sure Richard Wolfe was too much of a gentleman to mention it, but she was equally sure he had noticed. She flushed and lifted her chin. What did it matter what he thought? He was, after all, only an Englishman and she was Katrine Murray of Blair. Besides, Uncle James’s reasons for inviting her to Scone did not include flirtation.
“You ride very well, Katrine.” Richard’s voice broke the silence. “Of course, ’tis easier to ride astride. I wonder how you would do in a lady’s saddle.”
She set her teeth. “Well enough.”
“You must show me some day.”
“With pleasure.”
“Is tomorrow too soon?”
Katrine’s eyes widened. “Are you always so persistent, Major Wolfe?”
“Only when I have so little time.” He was every inch a Saxon with his golden hair pulled back neatly into a queue and those impossibly blue eyes. “Please say yes.” The husky quality of his voice seduced her.
Their horses were very close. Katrine leaned forward and placed her hand in his. “I would be very pleased to go riding with you, Richard,” she said.
Aware only of each other, neither of them heard the creaking wheels and rattling bridles that heralded the arrival of the Murray travel coach. And so it was that Janet Murray’s first sight of Scone Palace in over a year included the never-to-be-forgotten image of a very tall, very fair young man pressing her daughter’s hand to his lips.
***
“What do you know of this Englishman?” Janet asked her brother-in-law later that evening.
James looked over at the seating arrangement near the fire where the two young people were intent on their chess game. “He’s a good man,” he replied. “Now that his brother is dead, he will give up his commission. He stands to inherit the earldom of Manchester.”
“I don’t like the way he looks at Katrine.”
James’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “She could do much worse.”
“We must know everything about the